AN: A short, pointless drabble I wrote when I was bored. Still, I do hope you enjoy it!
Disclaimer: I loved Peter Pan when I was a kid, though I did not own it then, or now, or ever will.
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The Stranger in the Window
Peter Pan has gazed through many a window during his long life, though he is still but a child, and age is but a number to him.
He'd stare through the glass, or hide behind the billowing curtains, if it so happened that the window was open and watch and listen – unseen by this world. He'd hear bedtime stories more often than not, and those were quite special to him, mind you, because sometimes he'd find a glaring familiarity with the hero of the tale. He'd hear myths and legend and the like, and he's never grown tired of any of them – alright, maybe there were a few, but those were very long and quite repetitive, and were not likely to spark childish awe.
The world is made of stories, from old legends and bizarre myths people had a habit of concocting to the simpler, but no less creative, ordinary, and a bit exaggerated, family history – the mundane life.
But of course, every good story is in dire need of a good story-teller, so every so often Peter goes on a wild chase to find one – and then latches on to them like an invisible leech.
Sometimes he got reckless though, more reckless than someone who had such experience in speaking about was wont to, but he grew bored an awful lot, that he did – and he was just looking for entertainment, someone to share a couple of jokes with and take on an adventure or two – no one wanted to stick around for more. He'd pick them up, show them wonders only a child could understand, amaze them – but then they'd grow up, they'd leave and forget. He'd grow lonely too.
Peter lives on the border of the clouds and the stars, between life and fantasy – in a place only a child could understand. But a child was a child no more, because the world was such that you couldn't stay a child forever – even if you'd remember with fondness those times, even if you held on to that juvenility. Children grew up and they'd grow old too.
It's better to leave when everybody is still too happy to notice. It's the end of yet another adventure, and all the children had returned to their mothers – their homes. He's forgotten if he ever had one.
Peter Pan has gazed through many a window during his long life, though he is still but a child, and age is but a number to him – and the world moves on without him.
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